Оливер Блик - The Highbinders

Cagle made his big hand go palm up then palm down a few times, indicating that Robin Styles, the man who owned what might turn out to be a three-million-pound sword, did a little of both. But mostly lost.

“How much is he into you?” I said.

“We don’t give credit.”

I sighed. “Why do you still try to lie to me, Wes, when you know that I know better?”

“It’s privileged information.”

“Funny, but I just happened to remember something,” I said. “I remember a story about what happened between you and Meyer in the Bahamas. It’s a hell of a funny story. I don’t think too many people know it. I wonder if the guys who own this place have heard it?”

Wes Cagle looked around the bar. “They don’t know about the Bahamas. All they know about is Vegas. I was strictly kosher in Vegas.”

“They don’t have to know about the Bahamas then, do they?”

Cagle let me look at his new teeth again, but he wasn’t feeling smilish. “Styles’s into us for forty-three thousand pounds. His cutoff is fifty and from the way he’s going he might get there tonight.”

“What’s his game?”

“Seven-card. Nothing else.”

“Why’re you so lavish with the credit?”

“We’re betting on the come,” Cagle said, staring at me. “That’s what you’re betting on, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” I said. “We go-betweens are just like gambling hells. All heart. You’ve got a guarantor, Wes, or you wouldn’t let Styles bet a dime. Who it is, Eddie Apex?”

“Eddie might have mentioned something about it. That the kid would be okay for up to fifty thou. He also mentioned that you’d want to meet him.”

“I’d rather watch him play poker for a while first.”

“Uh-huh. Eddie said you’d want to do that, too.”

“What kind of game is it?”

“Table stakes.”

“Five hundred get me in?”

“Five hundred what?”

“Dollars.”

“No, but you could get in for a thousand bucks maybe, if you still play that same tight-assed poker of yours.”

“You take a check?”

“Sure, Phil,” he said, smiling for the first time as though he meant it. “Traveler’s checks.”

I took out my book of American Express fifties and started signing away. When I had signed enough, I tore them out and handed them to Wes Cagle. “The table will give you your chips,” he said. “I’ll point Styles out to you.”

“Okay.”

“One more thing, Phil.”

“What?”

He smiled again, another happy one. “I hope you lose every fucking cent.”

I had stayed in my room at the Hilton until ten forty-five that night waiting for somebody to call and tell me where I should bring £100,000. When they didn’t, I had walked down to Shields on Curzon Street to take a look at Robin Styles, the young man who owned an old sword that might turn out to be worth a few million pounds.

I had been looking at him for almost five hours now across the green baize of the horseshoe-shaped table. I had decided that since he talked like a twit, drank like a twit, and played poker like a twit, he must be a twit. It was an opinion I was not to change until it was almost too late.

We were playing seven-card stud and the house dealt. There were six of us playing: Styles, a German from Düsseldorf, another Englishman, an American from Dallas, me, and a London type whom I took to be a shill because he looked bored out of his mind and at the stakes we were playing for, it’s hard to be bored if it’s your very own money that’s being won and lost.

“Mr. St. Ives,” the man from Dallas said. “I do believe you’re tryin’ to run another shitty on us, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“No need to apologize,” I said. “Just bet.”

I had been running shitties for the past hour, betting extravagantly on nothing and getting caught at it and betting the same on kings full, which is a pretty fair hand even in seven-card stud, and suckering them all in. I was better than even, and now that I had done my advertising, I was ready to play some mean poker, which is the only way to play it, especially seven-card stud, a game that I had always detested.

I had paired fours on the first two down cards, hit another four on the third up card, and caught the final four buried on the last card down. The German I figured for a high straight, Styles for a flush, and the Texan for a full house. The shill had folded as had the other player who, apropos of nothing, had suddenly announced that he was from Manchester. We had all congratulated him.

The Texan bet first because he had the only pair showing, queens. He bet thirty pounds and everybody called, but when it got around to me I raised him a hundred. Although I had absolutely nothing showing, from the look in the eyes of the man from Dallas, I could see that he had felt the sandbag fall. A superb professional gambler would simply have yawned and folded his full house. A gifted amateur probably would have called and let it go at that. A good Saturday night player, riding his luck, would have raised me a hundred pounds and that’s what the Dallasonian did. I suppose you call the citizens of Dallas Dallasonians. Or Dallasites. I’ve never really thought about it.

The German, who had been a cool player up until now, fidgeted in his seat, said shit in French, and folded. Robin Styles, who may have been one of the ten worst poker players I’ve ever seen, raised the Texan’s bet by another hundred pounds. This time I dumped the whole truckload of sand on them. I had a little more than five hundred pounds in chips sitting in front of me so I counted them methodically into the pot.

“I’ll see the two hundred raise and raise three hundred,” I said.

The Texan stared at me. After a while he said, “If you were from London, Mr. St. Ives, I just might believe you and cut and run. But since you’re from New York, and everybody knows that folks from New York’ll lie like snakes, well, I’m just obliged to call.” He shoved in his chips.

I looked at Robin Styles. “I’m afraid I really don’t believe you either, Mr. St. Ives,” he said and counted his chips into the pot. It wiped him out, which was what I had been waiting for.

“No raises?” I said.

“No raises,” said the man from Dallas.

I flipped over my hole cards. “Four fours.”

“Mighty fine hand,” the Texan said and tossed his cards to the dealer.

“Jolly good,” Styles said. As I’ve mentioned, he sometimes seemed to talk like a twit.

I estimated that there was close to three thousand pounds in the pot. I shoved it toward the dealer and said, “Have these cashed in for me, will you, please? And take twenty pounds for your trouble.”

“Thank you very much,” he said.

“I always like to quit a little ahead,” I said.

The Texan yawned and stretched, which is what he should have done before, instead of calling me. “It’s the best time,” he said.

Robin Styles sat frowning at the green baize as if trying to decide whether he should exhaust the rest of his credit that night or wait until the following evening.

“Why don’t you join me for some breakfast, Mr. Styles?” I said.

He looked up. “Breakfast?” He said it the way he might have said a strange and difficult foreign word. “Well, yes, I suppose I really should eat, shouldn’t I? I mean the condemned man, the hearty breakfast, and all that.”

“I’ll treat,” I said.

“Oh, thank you very much. I could rather do with a drink though.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

He brightened. “Really? How nice.”

Robin Styles was blond and fair-skinned and tall and thin to the point of either emaciation or elegance. His movements were languid and his speech was drawled to the point of affectation and interspersed with frequent “mmm’s” which could be taken, I assumed, to mean anything from “right on” to “how terribly nice.” I decided that their use must have saved him much time and thought.